


besides all the glamour, all we got was bruised

by mwildsides



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mental Illness, Multi, Panic Attacks, Vignettes, nonlinear timeline, there will be more when/if I add more but I will add tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24311788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwildsides/pseuds/mwildsides
Summary: When Uhtred invites Finan to join the Bleeding Saxons and he accepts, it’s at a release party for The Minstrels’ new album. Uhtred is good friends with their lead singer, a folksy, self-described “feminist killjoy” woman with pale skin and dark eyes named Aethelflaed, who Sihtric tells him (once they’re all good and drunk), is in love with Uhtred.
Relationships: Finan/Sihtric (The Last Kingdom), background uhtred/aethelflaed, might be team uhtred ot3 later i haven't decided
Comments: 19
Kudos: 46





	besides all the glamour, all we got was bruised

**Author's Note:**

> okay. I had the idea and no AUs for this pairing so i had to. 1) haven't gotten to sihtric or finan in the books, so this is mostly show, and a mishmash of things i've gathered from fandom, so forgive my characterization. also stealing arnas' heterochromia for sihtric because how could i not? 2) Band names: thanks to instagram users: @peterstraub1508 for "haesten and the death dealers" and @chantalchavda for the big one, "bleeding saxons". Thanks to arnas for the album name, and mark for some of the other things, like festival names. Those boys sure talk about being in a band a lot. think that's all for now, enjoy.

Uhtred is pacing the recording space incessantly, driving up the nervous energy in the room even though both Finan and Sihtric are staying relatively calm. 

“He was planning this the entire time,” Uhtred mutters, upper lip curling in disgust, “he knew, he  _ always  _ knew, it’s what he fucking - fuck!” 

Finan stills the drumstick he’d been twirling over his fingers and sighs, looking up at Uhtred to focus his friend’s attention. “Maybe. But he’s still on our side, Uhtred.” 

Sihtric’s dark eyes fix on him and Finan glances over to gauge his reaction, which is a tiny, tiny nod that reassures Finan, who sits up straighter. 

“Our side?!” Uhtred’s voice gets so high that they’d tease him in any other circumstance, but it’s no time for that. “He only cares for himself, and the money he can make from  _ our  _ music,  _ our  _ hard work, how can you say he’s on our side, Finan.” 

He’s technically not wrong; a 360 deal means Alfred and the label gets a piece of  _ everything _ , merch sales, ticket sales, sponsor deals, a cut of it all, not just record sales. It was a blow to hear that their deal was being restructured without their knowing, or agreeing, rather, but Finan was trying to stay optimistic. Alfred and Wessex United wasn’t going to try and tell them what kind of music to write, or how to do anything, but it still chafed them all. 

What if he sprung something else on them in the future, like that they were going to make  _ this  _ kind of album and if they didn’t, WU and Alfred would sue them all into obscurity? He could make sure they never made an album again, there were a hundred thousand things he could do to essentially kill their band—and they could do nothing about it. 

At least that’s how things looked right now. Alfred and Uhtred had had their problems, but things had been amicable because The Bleeding Saxons had made a tiny indie label a major player in the scene with one EP. but now that Wessex United had attracted a few more bands, like Haesten and the Death Dealers, The Minstrels (close friends of theirs), and the Mercian turds in Sword Play, so things were looking up for Alfred. People were looking forward to the freshman album from The Bleeding Saxons, and they’d been practicing to record just when they got the news. 

“We can still make music. That’s what matters,” says Sihtric, finally and fervently. He and Uhtred had started this endeavor with their former drummer and old friend, Leofric, so this was their baby. Finan loved it too, of course, loved Sihtric and Uhtred, but he was new blood, so to speak.

Uhtred, hands on his hips, hangs his head and sighs heavily. “That is all that matters…” The way he said it meant he knew it to be true, but begrudgingly. He shook his head, and walked toward the door. “I need water.” 

Finan watched his friend leave the practice room, then sat forward and sighed, rubbing his forehead as Sihtric traipsed over to sit beside him on the grubby old couch. Their thighs touched, but neither said anything for a few moments. 

“We need to keep him focused on the record instead of Alfred,” Finan said finally, turning to look at Sihtric as he propped up his head on the heel of his hand. The other man nodded, eyes focused elsewhere.

“I think he will be, once we get deeper in. He’ll put us before Alfred and his anger, I know he will.” Sihtric looked over at a Finan, who inhaled and exhaled deeply once more. 

“Right,” he said, clapping his hands down on his knees, “let’s get started, then.” 

  
  


-

  
  


When Uhtred invites Finan to join the Bleeding Saxons and he accepts, it’s at a release party for The Minstrels’ new album. Uhtred is good friends with their lead singer, a folksy, self-described “feminist killjoy” woman with pale skin and dark eyes named Aethelflaed, who Sihtric tells him (once they’re all good and drunk), is in love with Uhtred. 

Which Finan only registers because it’s Sihtric telling him.

It’s the first time meeting the bassist, though Finan has glimpsed him at shows and around the scene before. They’re at a venue and the lights are low, but Finan likes the dark-haired Dane the moment he sees him. 

If he’d disliked Sihtric, he would have said the man had a rat-like face, but it’s more complex than that, mostly because of his eyes, his full mouth, the cut of his jaw and chin. He’s not pretty in the obvious, feminine way Uhtred is, but he’s pretty, and Finan can’t help smiling when Sihtric shakes his hand with a happy grin. 

They get on immediately of course, like they’ve been friends forever, but it makes sense; Uhtred is a good judge of character. And Finan loves Uhtred dearly, like a brother, so this whole endeavor is exciting. 

“Alfred is Aethelflaed’s father,” Sihtric goes on explaining over the music, “and her boyfriend is some Mercian cunt.” 

Finan laughs into his beer. “Which one?” 

Uhtred returns to them then, glancing over at the group Finan and Sihtric are watching. “The tiny one with curly hair, next to his friend with the bowl cut.” He’s evidently not happy about it, and Finan nods. 

“Looks like a pig’s arse,” he says and the three of them share a chuckle of agreement. 

Of course by the end of the night they end up nearly coming to blows with the Pig’s Arse and his friends, which Finan is of course all for, he loves a good fight, but Aetheflaed accuses them of trying to ruin things for her, so the Bleeding Saxons agree to leave. 

  
  


A few weeks and practice sessions later, just to make sure everything meshed well, Finan played a few small, local shows with Uhtred and Sihtric. It’s a damn good time, of course, the energy high even if the crowds are sometimes small and unaware of who they are, and Finan always ends each show with an arm around each of his friends as they grin out at the crowd. 

They drink afterward, heavily, and though there are always girls around, Finan doesn’t partake  _ too _ much because he’s not officially part of the band, at least not till the last show, when they’re all positive this dynamic is as good as it gets. 

  
  


-

  
  


Finan has never been a writer. He’s good at talking, yes, sometimes even at expressing his feelings with words, but he’s no lyricist. He’s never been in love, really, hardly had many meaningful relationships, and the biggest thing that’s ever happened to him was the death of his parents. Generally, he’s a happy guy, too, so. He’s never been very poetic. 

When it comes time to write a new Bleeding Saxons album with Uhtred and Sihtric, Finan feels like he doesn’t bring much to the table—at least initially. 

Uhtred on the other hand, is masterful at almost everything he tries, in a way that’s almost aggravating. He has songs written that he brings to the practice studio, with some idea of how the music should sound around the lyrics, but the rest, they’ll fill out together. 

Sihtric does the same, keeps messy notebooks of lyrics that strike him wherever he is, and he writes down everything that comes to mind. From what Finan can see, the pages are filled with words and doodles, scratched chaotically in black ink. It’s the opposite of Uhtred’s process; the singer thinks on his lyrics for quite a long time, jotting things down on a notepad so he doesn’t forget, but rarely. Only when everything is formed, when the time is right, does he bring the song into existence. 

Finan has had a few good lines in his life, all of which stayed in his head and would barely make up a chorus. Which is fine—he’s a rhythm guy anyway. 

The studio is Uhtred’s, and used to belong to his father. It’s not far, and nothing fancy, but it’s got charm and is a good, comfortable space they meet in. There’s an old rug, an old couch, and old posters on the wall from when Uhtred and his brother Ragnar would play in here together. Lots of history, and it’s where Sihtric kisses him first. 

They’ve been drinking because of course that’s just what they do, it’s become a tradition in the writing process, though Uhtred tends to stay sober when it’s something he deems very important. It’s a more casual session that night, full of more laughter than productivity, when Uhtred sets aside his acoustic guitar, and wipes the tears from his eyes. 

“Oh gods, I need sleep,” he sighs, grin still firmly in place as he pushes himself up from the carpet, stumbling once before he moves toward the door. “Stay the night, I won’t have either of you dying because of me.” 

Sihtric snorts a laugh. “Neither of us drive, Uhtred.” 

Shrugging his broad shoulders is the only reply Uhtred gives before he leaves the practice studio. Finan’s laughter is dying off, and he looks over at Sihtric who shakes his head, then stands, beer in his nimble hands, to come and sit beside Finan on the old couch. He sinks into it with a sigh. 

“That’s how songs should always be written,” the Dane says, bringing the bottle up to his lips again for another pull, and Finan nods. 

“Aye,” he agrees, finishing off what was left of his own ale, “don’t remember the last time I laughed so hard.” His eyes go a little unfocused even though they’re fixed on Sihtric’s bony knee that shows through his ratty jeans. They probably haven’t been washed in a week or two, and that’s just Sihtric. 

He’s an odd dresser, more inclined to thrift store sweaters than band t-shirts, it definitely adds to the oddity that surrounds him. The different colored eyes and his tendency to silence do that too, and Finan doesn’t realize he’s been watching Sihtric until Sihtric turns his head to look back at the Irishman. 

“What?” He asks quietly, his voice…..gentle. Not accusatory like maybe it should be. 

Finan doesn’t know what, really, so he shakes his head a little, mouth agape. He just keeps looking, can’t help himself. Sihtric is handsome, whimsically disarming. 

Their shoulders are already touching, so Sihtric, because it is him who closes the distance, doesn’t have far to lean over until he finds Finan’s lips in the thicket of his beard. It’s a surprise, but Finan gets with the program quickly and closes his eyes. 

He’s never actually kissed another man. Thought about it, sure, but only in the last handful of years and especially in the last six months or so. It’s not...entirely different, but women are soft in a way that Sihtric isn’t, more yielding, and maybe that has nothing to do with sex or gender, but the other person. Finan has simply never kissed someone like Sihtric. 

Who had a tattoo on the side of his head and silver beads in his hair and runes on his knuckles, who loves his cat and plays music with a raw sort of fierceness that Finan gets caught up in easily. 

Just like he gets caught up in the feeling of plush lips against his, so he leans into it when the shock passes, and his body goes lax. Sihtric sighs a little and puts more pressure behind it, doesn’t waste any time and opens his mouth, which Finan mimics so he can taste the ale on Sihtric’s tongue. 

It’s not really a kiss that ramps up to anything, instead it goes deep and hot almost immediately in a way Finan really had not expected. He has goosebumps, and there’s a flush that starts in his face, but it’ll spread quickly—he’s familiar with the feeling. 

Just as he wants to reach for Sihtric, the Dane pulls away. His sharp eyes are bright, sharp, and full of mischief, there’s even a smile on his bloody face. His cheeks are ruddy too. 

“Sweet Jesus,” Finan whispers, swallowing, and Sihtric laughs. 

“I’m going to write,” he replies, and is up off the couch before Finan can even process that fact. He’s left blinking, warm all over, and utterly perplexed as he watches Sihtric’s back. 

“Does my kiss inspire you, Sihtric?” He teases, but it’s because he has no idea what else to say, and it’s funny enough. 

As he rifles through the pages of notes they have spread out on the desk, Sihtric snorts a laugh but otherwise doesn’t reply, at least not for a little while. Finan watches him find his notebook and pen (he’s been writing with a fountain pen, of late), before Sihtric turns to sit on one of the high stools beside Uhtred’s guitars. 

(It’s named Serpent’s Breath, and it’s a matte black. The acoustic is Wasp’s Sting, though you won’t hear him call either of them their “proper names” out loud.)

“Maybe.” Sihtric says it finally around the pen cap in his mouth, and somehow he grins around it too, all teeth, before he turns his attention to paper. 

Finan still has no idea what to say. 

  
  


In the morning, he wakes up on the couch to see Sihtric had fallen asleep in the middle of the old rug, a sweatshirt balled up under his head and his fingers messy with black ink. 

  
  


-

  
  


They all get tired of interviews, Uhtred especially, and depending on the journalist, they even get flippant. It’s not one of those times, but they’re at the end of their first real headlining tour of Europe, so they’re all a little tired. Just a little. 

“- have always really been able to hear your influences in your music, what were you inspired by when writing this album?” This interviewer is earnest, at least, and not contrite or annoying or trying to get information out of Uhtred he’d rather not share. 

But they get these questions constantly, almost, and each has a few ales in them. 

They’re in the back of the bus, Uhtred, Sihtric, and Finan sitting in the bench seats across from the journalist, each more slumped into the leather than the last. Finan is barely sitting up, and Sihtric’s left hand is in his beard, playing with it both because he wants to and because casual affection seems to make strangers uncomfortable. 

It’s just something they do now. 

Thankfully Uhtred answers the question. “It’s the same things we always have been inspired by, not just music, but religion, the state of the world, things we’ve loved and the things we’ve been hurt by. We draw from those things more than music we like, I think.” 

Finan and Sihtric both mumble their agreements, nodding at the fine answer because it is that. 

“We write differently,” Sihtric says, nodding at Uhtred, “I write lyrics down all the time and don’t really think about music till I have to - “

“He means he’s a poet,” Finan says with a wily grin, and Sihtric’s left hand pushes at his head as they laugh. 

“Right,” the journalist shares their laughter in a tense sort of way, tapping something into the phone he’s recording the interview on. Jotting down notes in the modern age, but it’s clear he’s a little...discomforted by the casual affection. 

“Uh,” he starts, looking down at the notes in his phone, “and I’m sorry if this is inappropriate, but it’s come up before in - like - I’ve seen on social media - uhm. Are you, I mean, do the two of you, have, um. Sorry, are you two,  _ a thing,  _ as the kids would say?” 

He’s trying to be funny about it, pretending like he’s not the one  _ really _ asking the question. 

Sihtric looks at Finan, and Finan at Sihtric, both of them knowing and expressionless. 

“We’re all very close,” Sihtric replies first, “and tour gets boring sometimes. Don’t you watch your best friends jerk off?”

Uhtred heaves a cough and falls into a fit of them to disguise his laughter, and Finan presses his lips together knowing his thick beard hides some of his expression.

It cuts the interview short of the day, and Uhtred ushers the guy out of the bus still fighting off a smile and feeling rather sorry for the man. 

When he comes back he just looks at Sihtric and Finan, hands on his hips and head cocked to the side. 

“What, do you want us to lie?” Finan asks with all the feigned innocence he can manage, before glancing over at Sihtric, who shrugs and reaches out to pull at Finan’s beard again. 

  
  


-

  
  


Recording goes forward, in spite of the mess Alfred had made. Switching labels isn’t an option, and so the three of them take what they’d composed to the studio to bring it to life, which is much different than writing. Uhtred is much more serious, and directs and takes direction with a solemnity Finan would otherwise attribute to a soldier, but Sihtric is serious too. 

Finan is used to never being serious, because he still feels like a child on the floor of his mother’s kitchen, banging on pots and pans, only now he’s got someone to tell him they need to be in this rhythm. It’s barely-reigned chaos, and that’s probably what he likes best about drumming. It’s similar to fighting, in that way, and he does both of those things very well. 

He’d never sung much either, but Uhtred insists on Sihtric and Finan recording the harmonies because that’s how they’ll be sung live, and he prefers the “reality” of it. It’s easy for Uhtred to ask because he’s got the voice of an archangel (the scary ones with swords from Revelations, not cherubic humans with fair, curling hair and delicate doves wings from renaissance paintings), but Finan gets...nervous. 

“I’ve never recorded vocals,” he says, expression drawn as he stands outside the booth facing down Uhtred and Sihtric. 

“You sing at home, don’t you?” Uhtred asks as he crosses his massive arms over his chest. Finan shrugs.

“Don’t know that I’d call it singing…” 

Uhtred laughs and reaches past him to open the door to the recording booth, and bodily pushes Finan inside. “Do you need me to do it with you? I’ll stand just here and sing my part, you can record your harmony and we’ll have it done.” 

Sighing heavily, Finan shoves Uhtred out of the booth with all his strength and shuts the door himself. “Don’t need a nursemaid!” He shouts at his friend, but the soundproofing probably prevents them from hearing. 

Finan does several takes for several songs, mostly because Sihtric and Uhtred both mime lewd things behind their sound engineer Osferth just to make Finan ruin his take, but eventually the job is done. 

All three stand outside and listen to the raw cut of them singing, Sihtric and Finan accentuating Uhtred, and Uhtred jostles the Irishman with an elbow. 

“See? You have a talent for it my friend,” he tells Finan with a sly smile, before his eyes cut to Sihtric, “doesn’t he, Sihtric?” 

There’s a look on his face, in his dark eyes, that Finan can’t read, maybe because he doesn’t know the man well enough yet, but when Sihtric looks over at him, something in Finan’s gut tightens. 

“You do. Before long you’ll replace Uhtred here,” Sihtric teased, leaning in close to stage-whisper it to Finan. 

They go out for a break, but before heading back inside, Sihtric pins Finan to the wall of the building and kisses him soundly, again. His mouth tastes of a unique sweetness left behind by tobacco from his cigarette, and it’s a curious thing, Finan notes. 

A thing he’d never experienced or thought of, but can’t help but delight in, and all of a sudden, he understands why songs are written. 

  
  


-

  
  


“No. No. I’m not sleeping on the bottom. That’s where everyone’s fucking feet are.” 

“So sleep above Finan. Or below me.” 

“ _ Across _ from me. You can even reach your hand over and hold mine when you can’t sleep.” 

“Shut up. I don’t want to sleep beneath Uhtred, gods only know what bodily fluids I’ll be covered in at the end of tour, and  _ who’s _ -“ 

“Please, Thor knows how much you like being c-“ 

Sihtric tackles Uhtred until they’re both rolling back toward the lounge area of the bus, cackling with laughter and bickering with one another. In the meantime, Finan pushes back the curtain to the middle bunk, and claims it as his own. 

  
  


-

  
  


Never Royal, Forever Loyal drops at the beginning of a hot, dry English summer. 

It’s a time of high-energy, and a lot is going on, there’s a party for the release, there is planning to be done for the tours ahead, and apparently there are summer festivals to be played. 

Namely WessexWireless in Winchester, and they’re not given a choice. 

“You will be playing WessexWireless ahead of the album’s release,” Alfred tells them in that short, thin-lipped clip he had. There were dark circles under his half lidded eyes, and he didn’t seem to blink, by Finan’s reckoning. “You’re lucky you were even given a spot. It will be good for the lot of you.” 

He says it like a mother chastising her child, and while he is partially right, all three of them bristle at being told what to do by  _ Alfred.  _ Finan has never been fond of the man, but he has his moments—it’s just Uhtred that gets everyone’s hackles up. 

If it were their decision, they’d play a slightly less commercial festival, or even a circuit of small, local shows before the tour of Europe, but Alfred had apparently secured a spot for most of the bands on his label at the huge, three-day weekend festival that was WessexWireless. Any band, big or small, would be hard pressed to turn down that opportunity not only to build on their reputation, but see as many fans as a barren field in Winchester could hold. 

So they play the festival. It’s three days of one-hour sets in the sweltering summer heat, then sitting in their merch tent to sell t-shirts and meet fans. 

It’s...fun, actually. Miserable, the weather is, but that just means that they have more fun on stage, tossing water from bottles at each other, wearing little to no clothing, and an almost never ending spray of sweat from Sihtric’s curly black hair. Uhtred refuses to cut his hair, instead wearing it on the top of his head in a bun like half of the women at the festival, but of course he wears it as effortlessly as Sihtric sports a Darkthrone t-shirt he's made into a crop-top. 

Finan isn’t sure if he puts on  _ any _ shirt that weekend. He loses track of the number of pictures they take either in the tent, or wandering the festival grounds to see other bands, not that many are of their liking. 

“Is that the only tattoo you have?” Sihtric asks, of the Celtic cross Finan has on his back. The Irishman is busy signing a NRFL vinyl, sitting forward in his folding chair to scribble his name in silver marker on the cover. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He teases, winking at the girl who waits for the album with an expression of barely-contained excitement, before he passes the album over to Sihtric. 

“Unless it’s on your ass, I don’t think you do.” The Dane of course has an interesting, elegant signature that he draws in the album’s cover.

“Maybe it is, you’ll just have to wait, eh?” Finan smirks back at Sihtric, who apparently doesn’t want to smile in front of their little audience, but it’s obvious he fights it off. 

“Check the Minstrels tent for Uhtred,” he tells the girls, who thank them both when they take their album and scurry off. 

“Not like I’ve seen everything  _ you’ve  _ got,” Finan says as he sits back in his seat and uncaps a bottle of water that’s gone lukewarm in the lovely Winchester heat. 

Sihtric, looking as darkly alluring as he ever does behind a pair of black sunglasses, just smirks at Finan and pulls up his shirt, not that there’s much of it covering him anyway. It shows the Irishman, and anyone else who cares to look, the intricate pattern of some kind of Nordic or, knowing him, Danish design of an animal. Finan can’t tell if it’s a wolf or a horse or a snake or a crow. 

There’s tattoos on his chest, too, and legs, and his back and feet, and palms, but Finan has seen those, if he doesn’t know the stories behind them. 

“You’ve basically seen it all,” Sihtric says, lowering his arm but he doesn’t adjust his shirt, which sits roguishly high on his left flank. He’s frustratingly attractive, and all Finan can do is sigh and push a hand through his sweaty hair. 

“But I haven’t,” replies Finan, grinning back at Sihtric playfully as another someone steps up to their booth to buy a t-shirt. 

  
  


-

  
  


The album drop party itself is both great and a complete disaster. 

It’s much like the one Finan first attended as Bleeding Saxons’ new drummer, there’s lots of people and even more free alcohol, the Minstrels even play some of their soft music from time to time. It makes Uhtred smile fondly, and it’s very obvious he feels a great deal for their frontwoman. 

Finan gets drunk quickly, surrounded by friends and laughter and so many congratulations he loses track of faces. People from the industry, fellow musicians, they all come to tell him, Uhtred, and Sihtric how great the album sounds, how glad they are for the three of them, things like that. 

Women come up and flirt and hang on each of them, which of course Finan is not at all opposed to, in fact they all indulge just a little. Not that he has any ideas towards any of them, it’s just a bit of fun, isn’t it? 

A blur of fun, the whole thing is, really, until it very much isn’t. 

Those shits from Sword Play are there, of course, probably by Alfred’s invite, or the label’s, but they turn up, and while Uhtred is off wistfully smiling at Aethelflaed, Sihtric stumbles off to the bar. It’s nothing different, so Finan calls for another drink for himself, before turning back to the brunette he’s been speaking to for the last hour. He asks if she wants something to but Sihtric is long gone. 

Sihtric isn’t away long enough for Finan to miss his presence, but then shouts go up, and the Dane is his first thought. The shouting gets louder, broader, it’s a fight of course, and Finan whips around, looking for his friends in the crowd. Across the room, Uhtred is pushing his way through the throng, shoving people aside, shouting Sihtric’s name, so Finan follows his gaze to a break in the crowd. He sees a few heads, a few shouts he recognizes vaguely as Sihtric’s, and then Finan is shouting too, perhaps unceremoniously untangling himself from the brunette. 

Of course it’s that shit Aethelred who never seems to be able to keep his mouth shut, and a few of his lackeys. One has a bloody nose and is splayed on his ass on the floor, but the other is getting up and ready to push Sihtric bodily off of Aethelred. Which of course is not going to happen, so Finan dives in for the skinny bearded shit. 

It ends because of Uhtred and Aethelflaed, and because everyone in close proximity can hear the wet smack of Sihtric’s fist against Aethelred’s face. Finan is bloody too, having broken the lackey’s nose with his forehead, but he stops when Uhtred shouts at him. 

“Finan!  _ Sihtric.” _ He’s telling Finan that while their friend had the upper hand, he needs their help, so the Irishman shoves his target down on the floor and stands up, wobbly from drink and adrenaline. 

And indeed, Sihtric is splattered in blood, his nose bleeding and left eye swelling, but his eyes, his different colored eyes, look strange too. 

“Sihtric,” Finan pants, reaching out to that bruised, angular face. The Dane looks at him and doesn’t see him, that much is obvious. 

They get him to the bathroom and lock the door, and Uhtred dismantles the paper towel dispenser to rip enough out to start the cleanup job. 

“What did that weasel say?” He asks, still a little out of breath. Finan has Sihtric pinned against the counter because the man is clearly elsewhere, either concussed or...Finan really doesn’t know what. 

“I don’t remember,” Sihtric answers eventually, voice soft. His head lolls, and Finan holds him fast. 

“Hey. Sihtric, look at me, look at me. It’s Finan, do you see Finan?” Panic rises in his gut because he doesn’t understand, he’s a fighter, but he doesn’t understand what’s happening. 

“Finan,” Sihtric says, and a little smile teases the corners of his mouth before his expression crumbles completely. He doesn’t sob, exactly, he looks angry more than anything, but there are tears, and so many that they mix with the blood on his cheek. 

“Jesus god...Uhtred.” Finan pulls Sihtric against him, cradling the Dane’s head against his neck as Uhtred hands him a few wet paper towels so he can wipe the blood from Sihtric’s cheek. 

“Did you black out again, Sihtric?” Uhtred asks in a voice so gentle, Finan  _ knows  _ they’ve been through something like this before. 

Sihtric nods, smearing blood and tears and snot over the shoulder of Finan’s shirt. 

“So he did say something,” Uhtred surmises, a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder, “something that triggered you.” 

Another nod, and Uhtred nods his own understanding. 

“Care to fill me in on something, either of you? Here, up you go, let’s get that - there you are, that nose set hm?” Finan splits his attention, first looking to Uhtred, then to Sihtric as the Dane lifts his head. He’s smeared with blood and snot, but that’s the least of Finan’s worries, so he brings up the sleeve of his shirt to wipe his friend’s skin clean. 

“It’s not mine to tell,” Uhtred says, still quiet but he isn’t panting and high on adrenaline and worry the way Finan still is. 

“Panic.” Sihtric chimes in finally, voice a bit slurred and mumbling. He turns his face into the hand Finan uses to drag a handful of wet tissue over his skin. “I get… panic attacks.” 

“Quite literally, to Aethelred’s misfortune,” Finan teases, even if nows not the time. That’s just his timing though, isn’t it. 

Sihtric smiles, eyes moving to Finan’s face, and sees, finally. The Irishman grins back, relieved, and Uhtred pats Sihtric’s shoulder. 

  
  


Someone had called an ambulance for Aethelred by the time Finan coaxed a skittish Sihtric from the washroom. Uhtred had left earlier to try and smooth things over the way only he could, but it’s not really something he can talk them out of. 

The exterior of the venue is bathed in red and blue flashing lights, and when Finan emerges, Sihtric so close behind him they bump into one another, Uhtred looks back at the two of them with an almost sad smile. 

“Get him home,” he tells Finan softly and with a nod. 

“What about all this?” The Irishman waves a hand at where an ambulance is treating the man who he’d given a trashing, cleaning him up and taping a cut on his cheek. 

“I’ll take care of it, Aethelred won’t be an issue.” How Uhtred remains so calm, Finan has no clue, but he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he claps his friend on the shoulder. “Get him home,” Uhtred repeats, and Finan does. 

  
  


It seems strange that he’s never been to Sihtric’s apartment, but until now, Finan supposes, he’s never had a reason. The place is small, a studio apartment that is every bit an expression of Sihtric’s personality as his tattoos, the way he dresses, and the passion with which he plays music. 

Silently, they enter the dark one bedroom together, and Sihtric tosses his keys on the kitchen counter as he toes out of his boots. Finan only moves when Sihtric does, crossing into the tiny kitchen to the freezer, where he looks for either an ice pack or something that would do in its place. 

“Christ’s sake man, what do you eat?” Finan muttered as he shoved aside a mostly empty handle of vodka to find an ancient pack of frozen peas in the very back of the freezer. It appears to be smeared with old blood, so this probably isn’t the first time it’s been used in a time like this. When he turns with it in his hand, Sihtric is pulling his shirt over his head and using it to wipe his face again. 

They both need a shower in reality, but something tells him that isn’t going to happen. 

“Alright then. Lay down, hm, put this on your cheek and I’ll get some water. You at least have some pills in a cabinet somewhere?” Finan keeps talking as he passes off the peas to Sihtric, because otherwise he fears he’s going to have to ask what happened, and Sihtric will have to tell him. It’s a little scary, whatever is hanging in the air between them, but they’re both soundly ignoring it, and for the time being, that’s alright. 

“Yes mum,” is all Sihtric says, a lopsided smile on his mouth as he presses the cold pack to the left side of his face, then falls back onto the bed with a sigh. 

Finan putters about getting a glass of water, finding a few pain pills for the both of them, frankly, and almost thinks he’s going to find Sihtric asleep when he goes back to his friend, but he isn’t. He’s blinking slowly out at the windows, clearly deep in thought.

“Sit up, down this and I’ll leave you be, eh?” Finan insists, keeping his voice firm for the time being, and that seems to make Sihtric smile as he does what he’s told.

The pills are knocked back and the water finished, and that’s that. It leaves Sihtric sitting on the edge of his unmade bed, looking up at Finan in the dark. 

“So,” Finan says, and his voice cracks a little so he has to clear his throat, “you going to tell me why you put Aethelred in hospital? Not that he didn’t deserve it, I’m sure.” 

Sihtric turns his head away then in reply, and he brings the ice pack to his cheek as Finan stares down at him steadily. Because he can’t help himself, he reaches out to put a hand on Sihtric’s neck, thumb tucked up against that soft spot just behind his ear. 

“It’s a long story you don’t want to hear,” the Dane mutters, sounding more exhausted than anything. 

Finan frowns. “Why d’you think that?” 

“It’s a lot,” Sihtric tells him with a humorless huff of laughter, “and I just want to go to sleep.” 

And that’s final enough that Finan doesn’t argue; he’s exhausted too so he nods at Sihtric, and turns with the intent to fill up the water glass again, but a hand on his wrist stops him. He looks back at Sihtric, who watches him with an odd kind of apprehension. 

“Don’t act surprised. You know I was going to ask you to stay.” 

It’s Finan’s turn to laugh. “I wasn’t leaving, I was getting us more water. You’re already going to wake up feeling like shite, at least we can curb the hangover.” 

Sihtric smiles, ducks his head, and lets go. 

  
  


-

  
  


“Why,” Finan pants, and it’s hardly a word spoken, more a punched-out breath he can hardly manage between the press of Sihtric’s mouth. 

“Why what?” The Dane asks, withdrawing enough that he can look Finan in the eye even if their hands are still wandering. Sihtric works restlessly at Finan’s belt, and the zip of his trousers.

“Why  _ now?” _

Because the two of them have been dancing around it for months, during writing, during recording, over half of Europe they’ve been tending the embers without somehow igniting a blaze. Until now, apparently, when after what Finan thought was a good, routine show in the south of France, Sihtric decided he was finished waiting. 

They’d never shared more than heated kisses or a bunk for..well most of the tour, now, even though Finan has woken up many a morning with Sihtric pressed against him, ready for more than all that. So he’s not sure what’s changed. 

Sihtric’s upper lip twitches, like his expression is ready to curl into one of disgust, before it smooths out, and his hands curl and still on the open ends of Finan’s belt. He tugs on them, forcing the other man off the wall and against his body. 

“That girl,” he mutters angrily, “a few weeks ago, in Hamburg with - “

“The red hair,” they say together, and Finan grins not because of the memory of the woman, but because he’s amused that Sihtric was motivated by  _ jealousy.  _

“Yes.” Sihtric ground out the admission through gritted teeth, before he dove in for another hungry kiss. Finan would be smiling into it still if his mouth weren’t so thoroughly occupied. 

“What about her?” He asks when he presses his palms to Sihtric’s chest, his shirt still damp with post-show sweat, to put some space between them. He’d like to hear Sihtric say it out loud. 

But the Dane frowns at him, then his gaze fixes on the wall behind Finan, and he looks a bit...lost.

“I didn’t like watching her touch you, I didn’t like watching you kiss her, and then it made me realize that I didn’t want to see something like that again.” 

“Like….?” Finan understands, but he does want to hear it. Hear more. 

“Someone else touching you. Anyone else.”

Sihtric kisses him again, pushes his tongue into Finan’s mouth and shoves him back against the wall again—he’s done talking apparently, which is just fine with Finan. He groans into the kiss and reaches for Sihtric’s hair; it’s getting longer now that he’s been on tour, the curls falling over his forehead and just the right length to fit in Finan’s fist. 

There are hands at his open jeans now, pushing them down and open just a little before he shoves a hand beneath the hem of Finan’s briefs. He’s not wasting time anymore, wraps a hand around Finan’s cock, which makes the Irishman jump. He laughs into the kiss and Sihtric does too, which feels almost as good as anything physical they could do to each other. 

“Hold on, now,” Finan murmurs, forehead pressed to Sihtric’s as he looks between them and works open his trousers too. There’s the want to shove them down, but in reality, he’s not entirely sure what exactly he wants to do. 

It’s then, which is probably late, that Finn realizes he’s never had sex with a man, which might be a problem, he thinks. If he  _ over _ thinks it, anyway, which he’s determined not to. Not right now.

Sihtric doesn’t let him, anyway. A nimble hand wraps around Finan’s cock, and whatever else he’d been thinking of flees his mind in favor of the pleasure. It’s familiar, of course, but the fact that it’s  _ Sihtric _ , finally  _ Sihtric  _ that gives the delicious feeling an edge. Finan growls into the kiss, which slows now to something smoldering. 

But no matter how good Sihtric touching him feels, Finan wants to return the favor, needs to. He needs to know what Sihtric sounds like, if he trembles, or if he’s just as quiet in this as he is in everything else. So Finan pushes his hand straight into the Dane’s open trousers with no preamble, no toying. It’s a little awkward, with the both of them attempting to do the same thing in such close quarters, but it works, for a time. 

Finan moves his hand over the stiff length of Sihtric’s cock as he would if it were his own, and despite his inexperience, the Dane seems to like it. Where Sihtric is quiet in everything else, he is generous with the noises he makes now, groaning softly into the sloppy press of mouths their kissing had become. Finan himself can’t help but growl when Sihtric’s fist tightens around his cock on a downstroke, and a shiver of pleasure shudders through his stomach and up his spine. 

Sihtric keeps him pressed up against the concrete wall of one of the venue’s many back hallways, but still their bodies try and move together in sometimes discordant ways, even around the awkward positioning with their hands trapped between their bodies. They manage, anyway, and though it feels like an eternity, a hot, close eternity, it is in fact a handful of moments before Finan tenses in Sihtric’s grip. 

“I’m - Sihtric that’s - I - “

At least he tries, before an exquisite, numbing pleasure takes over, wave after wave rolling through him as he comes. Finan’s eyes are closed, his head tipped back against the wall and mouth agape when Sihtric delicately removes his hand, and none too delicately wipes it on his own jeans as he leans in to press a few kisses to the arch of Finan’s neck. 

“Be with ya in a moment…” Finan sighed, blinking his eyes open. Sihtric chuckled. 

“Don’t worry,” the Dane said softly, his nose bumping Finan’s in an unexpectedly affectionate gesture. “Just promise me something.”

“Ah. So you want something. And you know you could ask a man for anything just now, don’t you. You fox.” Finan smirks a little because Sihtric laughs and nods. 

“No more redheads.” 

There’s a pause, and Finan can’t help but bark a laugh upon hearing the condition. It’s one he can readily agree too, and Sihtric is grinning giddily like he knows what the other man will say. 

“No more redheads,” Finan agrees, and butts his forehead against Sihtric’s. 

**Author's Note:**

> if you've got something you want to see out of this universe, totally let me know. I've got a few more things I'd like to do, mostly so i can do some things from sihtric's perspective! and get to know the boys and their pasts because hoo boy do i have IDEAS. so feel free to hit me up! here, or @mayawildsides on twitter ! i do need people to talk TLK with.


End file.
